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The wheel is come full circle.
William
Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) King Lear (1605)
During the last week of September for the year 2005, I felt as though I had embarked on a journey of twists and turns that culminated into a gigantic full circle of my life. It was as though whatever I began years and decades ago was now coming to completion of sorts, and that I could finally move on from where I was in the past, to where I am about to go in the future. The journey on this life traveled road of mine began on Saturday evening, September 24th at the Edwards theatre in the community known as Valencia, just north of Los Angeles when the world premiere of my first feature film, Yesterday’s Dreams, was shown on the big screen. There I was as writer, producer and lead actor, with the first shot of me at the beginning credits getting out of bed in my underwear, proudly showing off the work I did in gaining those extra 25 pounds for the part. I had to admit to myself that I looked much larger and bulkier on a 20-foot screen than I did on a 25 inch television set. I was thankful that now, a year later, the weight was off. Since I had seen the film numerous times, I was more interested in the audience’s reaction. There were more laughs than I anticipated, and even though I considered the night’s showing a disaster (and rather humbling experience), because the people I hired to deliver the film to the festival, sent a cheap defective copy, the audience members were nonetheless very kind and understanding in their words and compliments. I still apologized and offered refunds. As I sat in that dark theatre listening to the audience’s reactions, my mind began to wander to a moment in time some 20 years ago when I just passed my first quarter century of life and looking forward to being married to a woman I was madly, passionately, hopelessly in love with, only to discover her in bed with another man (whom she actually married not long after). The last thing I could remember her saying to me was that I would, "always be a loser and will never amount to anything in this life." I wanted to die then. Even planned out my own demise, but by the Lord’s grace, was pulled back from the abyss of death into life with a purpose that I would devote myself to not only turning my dreams into reality, but become successful as well. That would be my revenge against the laughter. And here I was in a
movie theatre, off in my own thoughts while the audience was caught up in
another world that I had created on the screen, thinking about the last 15
years of accomplishments in cycling and awards received; of my first book and
film... and about my old love who was some 3000 miles away in a New England
town celebrating, with tears of dread no doubt, her 51st birthday. And I heard the Lord speak to my mind and ask, Well, Kevin, how does having success feel? Is the revenge sweet to the taste? No, Lord, shaking my head. I no longer need nor desire to have to prove myself to anyone anymore, but to be a worthy servant of Yours. To continue creating and occupying until I am called Home... The days to follow were maddening, as the film continued showing at the festival. During the working week, as most people went through their normal lives in their normal 9 to 5 jobs, I was constantly on the phone with my lawyer and a young film maker that was hired during Yesterday’s Dreams to do a Behind the Scenes, Making Of... documentary, but instead, made an illegal film (with the blessings of those whom I hired who hired him) about my life that was picked up by one of the biggest film festivals in the country. Bad enough to have to be personally and publically humiliated in front of a film festival crowd with the feature film, but to have to go through it again with a documentary of my life somewhere else? I would have to be an egomaniac or completely insane. To say anything more would be inappropriate, because it looks (barring a miracle) like this documentary and feature film scenario (among other issues) may be heading to court, but let’s just state that the phone calls and correspondence was intense, as I began to think back to my ghetto days up to this point, and ask myself, How did I ever get into this position?... I needed to get away. Just take off for the day to rejuvenate and completely step out of myself and my current surroundings into another time and another era. In my youth if I wasn’t spending my time at the library or the movie theatre, I could be found either on the stage as an actor, or behind it doing other various duties. Many reviews would single me out for my performances, or for my intensity and command of the stage. One review I remember
in particular; at least a single line of type. I can’t remember what the play
was, nor the time or place or even what newspaper the review was in (in those
early days it was considered quite vulgar to read or even save one’s press
clippings, whereas today, everything is saved for historical purposes),
but I can recall vividly that part of the critique that stated, Foster’s
performance has the subtly of a Lawrence Olivier and the intensity of a James
Dean... Lawrence Olivier I was very familiar with, having grown up on Shakespeare (Hamlet still being my favorite), but who was this James Dean? I dismissed the thought, but not long after when I lost the part of Conrad in Robert Redford’s directorial debut of Ordinary People, I was so heart broken, I consoled myself by diving back into my profession, determined to get myself an agent, as I made the move from Connecticut to New York City. I called just about every theatrical agent in the book back then in 1980, and all of them either answered by slamming the phone in my ear (or the door in my face if I were brave enough to drop in on them), or insulting me to the point of tears before slamming the phone in my ear. Except one... she was rather sweet to me, as she listened to my tale of woe about losing the lead part in Ordinary People, and how acting was my life, blah, blah, blah... and then she spoke and said, You know, Kevin, I once had a client that went through some of the same things you’re dealing with now, but he got through them and eventually succeeded and so will you as long as you stick to your beliefs. I thanked her for her words of encouragement, and just before the conversation ended with Jane Deacy (who, unfortunately, was no longer representing anyone), I asked who her client was and if I could meet him someday. You can’t, she replied. He’s dead. His name was James Dean. There was that name again that kept following me around like some omen; some spirit. Dean followed me to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts where one of my acting teachers knew Dean personally and professionally and kept comparing my style and intensity to his (which didn’t sit well with the other students who ostracized me enmass). And again, when I continued my studies at The Actor’s Studio where I fell in with the founder, Lee Strasberg, one of Dean’s teachers, who was now one of my own (at least with another teacher, Stella Adler, all you would hear about was Marlon Brando). Eventually, I found some books about Dean, and discovered that he only made three feature films before dying in a car crash at the age of 24 on Friday, September 30, 1955, and that he was the only actor ever to be posthumously nominated twice for an Academy Award (for East of Eden and Giant). Needless to say, my curiosity was at a peak, until late one night on television, I chanced upon a showing of a film called Rebel Without A Cause, starring who else?... James Dean. Okay. This was it. I was finally going to see for myself what all this talk was by all these well connected people to Dean’s life that had now somehow interwoven with my own. Staring at the tiny black and white television set (color tv was still expensive to us starving students in those days) in my dorm room that late night, I finally understood what everyone was talking about, and where my path was heading. I never looked back again... Flash forward to this day, Friday, September 30, 2005, exactly 50 years to the moment and time of Dean’s death, as I found myself zipping down route 41 toward the junction of 46 located near the town of Cholame, California, just a few hours from where I live. To the scene where Dean’s life ended and his legacy began, as I thought about how, I, too, have been a rebel of sorts, and am still just as intense as I ever was, as I continue chasing my own dreams; going by the beat of my own (bongo) drum. Arriving by late
afternoon at the scene marked by a road sign that states: James Dean
Memorial Junction, I was not surprised to find a couple hundred fans
hanging arou After that thrill, some of the crowd hung around the crash site to pay their respects, while others (including myself) walked to the spot where Dean’s car stopped (the car had hit a telephone pole that was no longer there, but it didn’t matter... Jimmy was dead before his car crossed the road; a result of near decapitation). There, along a fence, were a few photos showing Dean and the accident; the completely demolished Porsche, along with Turnupseed’s smashed front Ford Tudor (he was able to walk away unharmed, but had to live with the fact the rest of his life that he was responsible for killing James Dean), as well as the police carrying James Dean’s body to the waiting ambulance. The crowd I was with stood in silence. Some prayed, while others brought flowers to lay at the make shift roadside memorial. There was a James Dean impersonator, all decked out in his Rebel attire, who came to channel the spirit of James Dean (and get his picture in the papers). It was amusing when a photo of us talking was caught, and I laughed afterwards with the thought, James Dean meets Captain America. It was getting late; the sun finally going down behind the mountain range (just as it did a half century ago when, at the time of Dean’s death, it was in his eyes, thus he couldn’t see Turnupseed’s car coming toward him until it was too late) when I decided that I was going to get a bite to eat before heading home. Making my way about a quarter mile west on route 46, I stopped at the Jack Ranch Café, a diner that’s been around since 1890 and still serving home cooked meals to passing tourists and James Dean fans alike. In the Café parking lot stands a lone tree surrounded by an outer concrete base, while the tree itself is surrounded by a polished stainless steel memorial that simply states Jimmy’s name and his birth and death dates that was erected by a Japanese fan back in 1977. The parking lot was full pf people with 50's era vehicles, showcasing James Dean memorabilia, with an old fashioned DJ playing 50's tunes over the loud speakers. If you let yourself go for just a moment, you could actually feel being transported from the lightening fast cyber age to a more slower, innocent pace of a fading era. I hung around outside for awhile; feeling the cool breeze against me, with the stars twinkling in the evening sky. Some of that music brought me back to my youth and those school dances of the 70's when asking a girl to join me in a twirl was a nerve-wracking, awkward experience for a geek like me. After dinner at the Dean infested Jack Ranch Café, I slowly walked toward my car, straining to stay in the 50's just a little while longer before I had to return to reality. The night was cool and clear. As I made my way back home, I wondered what Jimmy would think of all this if he were alive. He’d probably laugh and shake his head and wonder what all the fuss was about, as I was doing now. Yeah, I’ve come full circle with James Dean, only I still have a lot more life in me to live and many more dreams to turn into realities. Until Next Month, Kevin |
FULL
CIRCLE
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the still dangerous intersection with no police supervision in sight (Jimmy
might have found that amusing). Among those admirers, were three men with
replica silver Porsche 550 Spyders a blazed with the number 130 on the
front and Little Bastard on the back (that was Jimmy’s race car, as he
and his mechanic, Rolf Wutherich, were heading toward Salinas for a race the
next day). At exactly 5:45 pm when James Dean collided with Donald Turnupseed
(who was a life long resident of Visalia, a town just down the road from where
I live and who died several years ago), the three Porsche replicas came
roaring down route 46, giving their thumbs up to the standing press who
were there to capture the event for their news organizations.